


On The Road To My Horizon

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Bottom Jensen, Cousin Incest, Drug Dealing, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Jealousy, Junkie Jared, Loneliness, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Obsession, Recreational Drug Use, Tech Nerd Jensen, Top Jared, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 04:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11154150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Jensen works at the ratty-old cinema Jared likes to bring his dates to. (Music.)





	On The Road To My Horizon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homo_pink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/gifts), [Theboys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/gifts).



> And I dream of the things I’ll do  
> With a subway token and a dollar tucked inside my shoe  
> There’ll be a load of compromisin’  
> On the road to my horizon  
> But I’m gonna be where the lights are shinin’ on me  
> —Glen Campbell's “Rhinestone Cowboy” (1975)
> 
>   
> For E, because you’ve made me see God one too many times with your weaving-puzzling-magicking of words. Because I wouldn’t dare write the same way without you. Because I saw [that goddamn picture](http://hellhoundsprey.tumblr.com/post/159529783954/traveling-riverside-dean-taeminsbaby), thought of you first of all things before the story followed. I hope this is anywhere close to what you like, and if not, please believe that I tried.
> 
> For C, because I have un-learned to write not for you. Because you’ve been with me through birthing this smudgy mess. Because you always know where to point. Because, in the end, if not for you, my words were flowerless entirely.

 

Tonight’s a slow night. Slow or not, though, it’d be easy to recognize that guy. He’s with yet another girl this time, no less gorgeous than the last few. Not that Jensen for the sake of his life could pick any of them from a lineup, but, yeah.

He’s ordering gummy worms, again, like the last times. His girl heart-eyes up at him, at least as wet between her legs as Jensen is (considering the sight) and giggles, “You’re such a child, Jared!”

So, Jared. Jared.

Jared’s hand settles in over her ass as they start making their way to hall four out of four—Jensen overheard them talking about Modern Times while they were waiting in line—and Jensen’s heart weeps, just a little, when he’s getting a smirk, a wink; silent bro-language, swank, no flirt at all.

Jensen double-butters the next serving of popcorn by accident.

~

The only difference between inside their archives and out in the alley by the dumpsters is that Jensen’s allowed to smoke out here. This deep into the summer, the air is mercilessly stale even at night, not a breeze to be seen.

Tommy joins him wordlessly. Snaps his Zippo and Jensen likes that sound, kinda; fits well into the scene, with the traffic pelting by an’ all that. Tommy clears his sinuses which’s all he has to offer for conversation.

Jensen dips away ashes, indulges in a yawn, a stretch. Rolls his neck, yawns again. He takes off his glasses so he can wipe his palm over the entire length of his face, wipes sweat and sebum into his pants; slips the glasses back on and ignores how they need a wipe as well.

Tommy prematurely discards his smoke so they can slip back in together.  

~

Another girl, yet again. Jensen doesn’t blame ’em.

The view from the projector room is limited but sufficient. They’re in the back, third-last row. Maybe five people in total in the hall, including the couple.

They’re making out. Slow at first; maybe she’s shy. Jensen can’t hear if she’s giggling, if she’s scolding.

Jared’s arm starts moving first. A slow but constant rhythm. Even with the little light thrown back at them from up front, Jensen can make out the bulge of muscles. Shoulder. Bicep. Her knee drifts outwards some more, with time.

She’s slim, long-haired like the others. Latina-esque, this time. If Jared has a type? Does he see any of them again, after?

Jensen can see her arm twisting, reaching. Hears the faintest jingle of what could be a belt buckle.

Perched on the edge of his folding chair, Jensen, somewhere, underneath the theatrical soundtrack of the film, finds the softest, lowest sigh.

~

Rainy days, busy days. Tommy advises Jensen to change his uniform halfway through the evening, and yeah, the stench is offensive. They’ve mentioned this to George before, that the cheap polyester shit isn’t exactly the best choice, but he doesn’t see the problem and they should stop complaining and get back to work, so that’s that.

George looks up from his PC when Jensen slithers into his office, makes haste to grab a fresh change, pull the old shirt off and the new one on.

Jensen’s eyes yearn to roll back into his skull when George’s throat clicks. A tell, just before he starts talking.

“How’s it going?”

“Good. Like, thirty or something, so far. So, I’ll better head back.”

George doesn’t object, so Jensen runs.

~

Another day, another girl dangling from that arm.

He always chooses old movies no one will pay to watch.

He’s lucky—George has a vast collection of those, doesn’t like the newer productions even though every employee (even including Jensen) states that if he doesn’t keep the selection up to date, his business will go down sooner that he’d like. But he’s persistent like that. Surprisingly enough—and that much praise can and must be mentioned about the business of Mr. George Jonathan Blankenship—customer numbers have been stable throughout the years Jensen has been a part of The State. Very specific peer group, of course, and some patrons have their pictures on the inside of the ticket booth and the food corner so Tom and Jen will grant them free entry and drinks, like George decided they deserve. There’s mostly elderly people, fifties and up. Barely any young folks—but if _those_ come in, they either turn into heavy users or never return. There’s no in-between. Either you fall in love with the charm of this movie theatre or all you see is the peeling paint, the smelly restrooms, the cheap polyester-thread uniforms.

They’re in a special bubble, this particular cinema and its employees. It seems that despite the increasing comforts the internet offers, the classic films and the technology tied to them remains reason enough to leave one’s house and pay a few bucks to sit down and watch them flicker across could-be-bigger screens. Same thing as with record players. Nostalgia has a value, and George is counting on that fact.

It’s not too rare an occasion that Jensen has the pleasure of showing people around, explaining the old but faithful machinery, exchanging knowledge here and there, mentioning his master thesis here and there (upon which there’s usually impressed yet confused expressions). He’s collected quite the mass of business cards from directors, producers, people who have friends in production or PR and all that. Meets with some of them, from time to time, to catch up; doesn’t quite stick his neck out too far once someone comes up with a possible project. He’s not in a rush, really. He’s got The State, after all.

College friends come in, sometimes. Friendly on the outside, but maybe they think he can’t see them from inside the projector room or they simply don’t care in the darkness of the movie hall—but they turn disgusted, sometimes even litter. Jensen’s heard nasty comments, hushed or not, about how anyone could voluntarily choose to work in ‘a place like this’.

College friends are either under fat-paid contracts or, if not still ripping themselves apart for a job offer, resigned to other fields. Nobody said the film industry was an easy playground. Jensen wouldn’t want it any other way, though. Makes it that much more interesting. He’s aware, of course, that the way he’s undertaking his passion and expertise is not what his professors or parents or anyone would have expected. Then again, he’s always been this way, always chose the unanticipated routes, and they never understood that about him either.

So, anyway. The ladies’ man prefers old, boring, prestigious films.

So, Jensen has a good long raid through the archive. If he can make at least one person happy with that little bit of extra effort, that’s something.

~

It’s usually Tom who gets up first, but it’s always Jensen who gets breakfast going. If Tom was on his own, he’d live on dry toast, coffee and smokes alone.

George floats into the kitchen, baited by smells and sounds of bacon and eggs in a frying pan. He’s always in that one hot pink morning gown before he’s showered and dressed, silk and flowers and Jensen’s always liked the way it felt when brushing against his skin as George comes up to him and kisses him on the cheek. But it’s been a short night and George hasn’t shaved yet and all Jensen can do is turn away from George’s belly as much as he can without placing his balls right next to the pan.

Offended gasp, hands on Jensen’s shoulders. “Well, good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Jensen grunts reluctantly and tosses their breakfast.

Tommy pretends to be fusing with the contents of his coffee mug, doesn’t look at either Jensen or George as they come to sit and eat, and Jensen would hold his hand or something, anything, if he wasn’t so sure Tom would snap from it.

~

Jensen got them their sweets but cannot stay and watch, has to get another movie ready, and maybe that’s better, maybe he should stop being such a creep. By the time everything is finished up, the movie with the couple in it already is halfway in. Jensen decides to let it slide this time, the guy (Jared, Jared) will be back soon anyway.

He joins Tommy out on the side entrance’s doorsteps. George comes out, joins them. Jensen hands him one of his smokes on hint of finger-flick, lets him light it on Jensen’s already lit one.

They’re quiet, listening to the road.

“Slow day?”

Tommy shrugs, Jensen keeps watching the street.

“Boys, if I ask you a question, I want an answer.”

“Yessir.”

“Well, if you’re so bored come to my office. Need to discuss the new program anyway.”

Jensen holds back a cringe. “Yeah. Sure.”

He flicks his smoke into the gutter, avoids Tommy’s eyes when he follows a few steps behind George.

~

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Shy smile. “Coke n worms?”

“You got it.” The guy smiles brightly, but who wouldn’t? The girl on his arm smells like a million dollars all the way across the counter to Jensen, and she’s not the prettiest of the lot he’s brought here. He turns towards her. “What’s it for you, sweetheart?”

“You guys have ice cream?”

“Sure do, miss. What’s it you like—fruity, milky?”

“What kinda fruit?”

Jensen squints into the friendly-humming freezer to his hip. “Uh, raspberry…maracuja…yeah. Those.”

“Maracuja, please.”

“One maracuja for the pretty lady, comin’ right up.”

“A drink?”

“Water,” she says, so friendly she’ll surely have her underwear round her ankles before the commercials end.

Well. So much for ending the creepery.

Jensen’s equally considering cleaning his glasses and getting his dick out when Tommy joins him in the projector room, so he ends up doing neither.

“Hey.”

Jensen clears his throat. “Hey.”

“What’s up.”

“Not much.”

“What’s got you so worked up, huh?” Tommy peers into the room and God he knows Jensen way too well. Jensen clips him on the shoulder when he spots and laughs, hand in front of his mouth. “Dude, if George knew…!”

“Well, he doesn’t. Let them have a little fun, why don’t you.”

“You’re a saint, Ackles.”

“Fuck you.”

They both watch the movie and the couple in silence. Jensen has his fingers peeling on his lips, aching for a smoke. He shivers at Tommy’s hand to his thigh, weakly shoves him off, frowning.

“C’mon, jus’ a little.”

“Would you fuckin’ stop that. ’M sore.”

“So I’ll be gentle.”

Tom’s got both of them out at this point, nosing along the bruises on Jensen’s neck, making Jensen’s nipples perk under the still only mildly stinking uniform.

Jensen turns to stroke him, slowly. “If I jerk you off, will you fucking shut up?”

“Suck or fuck, Jen.”

“Oh come on.”

“Why’re you so fuckin’ bitchy today? Jesus.”

Jensen slides from chair with a grunt, down to his knees, and works Tom off too quickly for any true enjoyment to have a chance.

~

If Jensen didn’t know better, he’d say his uncle is a true Texan just like the rest of the family and thus doesn’t mind the heat much. But George grew up here in New Orleans, and mostly he’s a cheap old man who likes seeing his boys sweat like pigs in nothing but their underwear, so. The only room with air conditioning is the archive, just so the negatives won’t set themselves on fire. It’s not entirely impossible that Jensen’s extended attraction to said room might be connected to, well, that.

Over the years, Jensen’s—so far—bought a total of three fans. The first found its way into the kitchen at some point, while he was on a field trip to L.A. and not present to put his foot down about the issue. The second became Tom’s. The third, his current one, is so ancient and loud nobody but Jensen might possibly want or tolerate it, so he’s proudly been keeping it for—so far—two summers.

Count Basie blares from the refurbished record player, sound system almost maxed out. No neighbor ever complained about good Jazz played loud.

Jensen’s main problem here is the sweat: making his fingers too slippery in combination with the oil, making his glasses slip so far down his nose it’s a miracle they’re even hanging on anymore. He could take them off, really, bent so close over the Olympus his back is starting to hate him with a passion.

The curtains draped around the huge, open window flow in the occasional breeze.

~

Deserted halls, half by virtue of the perfect weather and half by virtue of the custom Jared-bait program. Jensen feels like dying when Jared _does_ come in _for real_ , alone though this time.

Jensen is hard behind the counter. Reaches for the gummy candy in Pavlov-manner, feels his jaw wobble on the, “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“No company?”

“Not yet.”

Southern-tanned smile, bleach-white teeth. Jared strolls along the counter like he’s considering ordering something different today.

“You’re always here when I come in.”

“What can I say—family business. We open, I’m here.”

Jared bends to peep into the cooler and Jensen wishes he’d turn his head just a little bit more, catch him in the act of standing there all ready to go for someone who doesn’t even notice him _like that_. Then prays he doesn’t, ever, at all.

“Livin’ the dream, huh.”

“Yup.”

“You ever go see a movie anymore?”

Jensen shy-smiles. “Boss isn’t payin’ me to sit on my ass.”

“But he’s payin’ you to stand here ’n rot?” Jared Cheshire-cat smirks—elbows on the counter, bare arms, smelling of hair product and aftershave and pussy. Purrs, “What kinda movies you into, huh?”

“You’re gonna laugh.”

“Try me.”

“Westerns. Uhm. From around the sixties. With Audie Murphy and all that. They don’t make ’em like they used to.”

“Texan boy likes cowboy movies. Classic.” (Jensen snorts over how much the guy’s own southern drawl makes his homesick heart want to curl into a ball and cry for mama.) “You got any Western films then this week?”

“Nah. Boss’s no fan. He’s more, uhm…into classics.”

Jared’s grin widens.

“What.”

“Jeeesus.” Jared stretches as he laughs, scratches down the back of his sweaty neck, mock-squints at Jensen. “Lettin’ me do all the work here, cowboy. But okay. Alright. You’re that kind. I can dig it.”

Jensen chokes a nervous laugh. “The hell you talkin’ about, man.”

“Watch a movie with me. Now. Whichever one you want.”

Jared wriggles his eyebrow as he peels some bills from a fat wad he had kept in the pocket right next to what, judged by size, might either be a gun or his dick. Flicks the money at Jensen and points at the beer.

“Man, I’ll—I can’t just. I’ll get in trouble.”

“Like anyone’s gonna come looking. Even your ticket boy’s gone runnin’. Oh, by the way, I was gonna mention that, cuz I guess I’ll have to pay inside now, right?”

“What? Where’s—Jesus.” Jensen groans, painfully. Tom, what the hell.

“’S a beautiful day out, man, bet they’ve got better things to do. So grab us that fucking beer, gimme those freakin’ a _ma_ zing worms, and watch a motherfucking _movie_ with me. _Please_.”

Jared’s got otherworldly legs. Stretches them out across the row in front as he waits for Jensen to stumble down to him from the projector room, beer already halfway gone but doesn’t look like it. He’s all smooth muscle in probably-designer clothes and Jensen feels inadequate with his clammy beer, his smelted-to-his-armpits uniform. Has to cross his legs, after a while, because the sight is obscene.

“You seen this one before?”

“Coupla times.”

“Hm. So you know it well. And wanted me to see it, too. So you think it’s _that_ good, huh.”

Jensen smiles, unseen. Careful not to knock his knee against Jared’s.

“You’re into this shit, huh. You really _love_ your job, don’t you.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Sweetheart, ’s doubtful I ever met anyone as obvious as you.”

When Jensen checks, Jared isn’t looking; keeps paying respect to the screen. Is whispering all along even though it’s just them in here, just so the sanctity of the movie isn’t disturbed. He’s chewing open-mouthed, though.

“You can touch it, y’know. If that’s what you’re into.”

“…Thought I was being so obvious.”

“Yeaaah, ’s just that I don’t wanna force it on you, right. Cause, I mean, it’s happened that I thought—well, is he staring at my _dick_ or the pussy _ridin’_ it; you can’t always _tell_ , ’s such a fine line.”

Barest hint of eyes to Jensen, and there’s a bone-deep shiver for that, one, bringing tears to Jensen’s lower lashes.

Jared shovels the last of his sweets into his mouth, folds the packaging all neatly before putting it aside, running his knuckles along the pebbled length of Jensen’s forearm.

“Name’s Jay,” he confides, like a Boy Scout secret, and it takes all of Jensen’s manners not to break then and there.

There’s nothing but the movie from here on, because Jensen can’t move. It’s all a blur, heart-raced and dry-throated, and he’s ready to bury and cream himself when Jared resumes, “Good movie. That was a dang good movie. Thanks.”

Jensen’s the one who says, “You’re welcome,” but it’s Jared who settles back against the counter once they’ve returned to the hall. Still so deserted, this place. Jensen tries to remember when’s the last time he’s had an evening off.

Jared’s eyes are unnatural. Sharp, like asking a question Jensen doesn’t have the guts to answer. Clears his throat instead, looks down to his feet.

Jared hums, very quietly and very gently, “That about me or you, sweetheart?”

Jensen nods, sniffs. “Uh, me.” Wipes his knuckles across his nose. Feels himself shaking for a smoke.

“Can I help you,” not-asks Jared. “If you want me to. I mean, I dun mind this. I like you shy.”

Jensen closes his eyes. Takes a breath. “I…I jus’, I need to get out. Of here. You, uhm—you live, here, somewhere? Close?”

Thank god Jared doesn’t touch him. Slurs, “Yeah,” like he’s pleased. Like Jensen did good.

“Can I come with you. Like, for an hour or so. If that’s, uhm.”

“What about your boss?”

“Well fuck _him_ , I don’t—I’m… I need to get out. Or I’ll go insane.”

“Then come.”

Jensen has the vague presence to lock the front doors from outside and breathes fresh, dust-free air, feels the sun burning his neck before he turns to bathe his face in it instead. Sighs, loudly, and likes the sound of Jared’s snickered laugh.

“Cowboy’s gotta ride, huh.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

A step behind Jared, fumbling with the sweat-dampened pack of smokes; lights one, snorts as his ears pick up Jay’s quiet sing-song of ‘wild and free, wild and free’.

Jared rejects the offered smoke, keeps his wad of dollars at hand. Leads the way as he drops some into every beggar’s hat or cup or hand, waves or smiles if spoken to. Has a gentleness that’s overwhelming, overgrown child with innocence making its steps bounce on the steaming concrete of the street. Jensen suddenly feels dirty, next to him, remembers how he’s still in his shape- and colorless uniform of polo shirt and long-legged pants.

Jensen burns through three smokes by the time they’ve reached their presumable destination; one tall industrial apartment cluster in the cheaper ends of the French Quarter. Doesn’t dare ask questions for now, simply enjoys being watched sucking on the last of his cig.

(Hints of tattoos and scars, of wrinkles. Dry skin but full hair, awake eyes.)

“You don’t to that a lot, do ya.”

“What?”

“Breaking out.”

“Not really. No.” Jensen steps out his smoke.

“So I’m lucky”, concludes Jared, and Jensen is too proud to tell him otherwise.

Jared lazily searches his pockets for the keys while asking if Jensen even _wants_ to come up, if he’d not maybe rather walk some more, enjoy the sun. Jensen declines.

Jared’s place is the loft on the third floor. Huge, stuffed with all kinds of unnecessary but decorative furniture, most looking the shade of damaged that means he’s paid ridiculous amounts of money for them.

So, not only good-looking but also rich as fuck. Okay. Great. Not intimidating at all, or anything. Nah.

Jensen keeps quiet-observant, curious without asking questions. It’s all a bit overwhelming—all the colors and shapes, different textures, and of course, in the midst of it all, Jared, glorious-smooth and smiling like a lamb, offering drinks Jensen gladly accepts.

Jensen considers not initiating anything at all. That’s too fast. Right? Wouldn’t that be too _desperate_? Can he _ask_ for these things? Maybe Jared isn’t even into that. (Him.) Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding. Wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe Jared’s just lonely. Jensen wouldn’t mind just talking, drinking. God, shit, no way he’ll be allowed to smoke in here, will he?

Shit, this might have been a mistake; even dangerous, maybe. Just following some random guy to his place. Just because he’s kinda hot. Or, extraordinary hot. And kinda flirty. Offered Jensen to touch his cock, in the dark. Which doesn’t play into the safety of this entire situation, but. Hell. Since when’s Jensen been playing anything safe, or cared about doing so.

Jared shakes and pours what resembles Margaritas (bless him), asks if Jensen wants anything to ‘get comfortable’, he’s ‘got it all, whatever you want’, and.

Well, it _explains_ things, to say the least.

Jensen declines. He wants to remember this, here; the mild room temperature and the sharp edges of Jared’s jaw, the way he walks, the tone of his voice.

Jensen sprawls on a couch like he’s confident; legs man-spread and sweating, stupid uniform. Should have changed before following Jared here like some bitch in heat. And yeah, Jared must sense that. The insecurities, the stiffness, the desperation. But doesn’t seem to mind, like he said.

Jared keeps tip-toeing around him like a cat, playful, smooth. Keeps his distance as if to push Jensen to make the first move. Which is never a good idea with Jensen, but he doesn’t know that. Jensen can only assume what Jared must see in him—unkempt baby-curled blond, nerdy glasses, pale, big eyes. Close to crying on being offered to touch another dude’s cock. God, yeah. Jensen knows what he looks like alright.

All owed to Jared’s seemingly unbending motivation to lure the shy movie theatre boy out of his shell, a conversation actually does get going between them. Jared likes to talk, and that helps, since Jensen’s mouth (despite the drink) won’t cooperate as much as either of them would like.

Jared’s an honest guy, to say the least. Says he brings girls to the movies, chooses old classics, because it makes him seem sophisticated. Didn’t finish high school since he had a friend who had a friend who’s introduced him into the scene, says the money is insane and ‘everybody does it, anyway’. Drugs are just a stronger kind of candy in his world, it seems, and selling them to a willing audience can buy him that simple posh life he, according to himself, really really really enjoys. Doesn’t like money in itself but what it’s capable of, the power it inherits. Adds, almost as if he’s worries that Jensen might think of him as a snob (“Which I really ain’t. I mean, money doesn’t equal happiness.”), that he loves to read and to have intelligent conversations. And Jensen _does_ believe that, moreover believes that Jared himself is indeed intelligent (but doesn’t share that find with Jared), that light-headed kind of philosopher with life-experience making up for education, occasionally exceeding the latter, even.

Jared confides, sweetly, that he likes horror movies, if he’s being honest. Doesn’t consume but likes his partners to be high during sex; “They’re a hundred percent themselves then, unashamed of what they want. An’ allowing me to give ’em these things.” Says, with a wink, that if anything he goes for blow, “If I wanna ‘stay up all night’.”

It’s that when Jared excuses himself to the bathroom that Jensen sees a chance ready to be seized. Feels comfortable enough with the light Margarita-rush and the constant hum and flow of Jared’s chatter, that he gets up from his sofa spot, strips on his way to the giant bed mounted to the wall. Flops down on it, artlessly, half-mast to full in mere seconds and waits, propped up on his elbows.

Peers over at Jared who needs a second to find him, so far away from where he’d left his guest. The view surprises him, obviously, takes him aback before it lures him in and Jensen’s heart makes itself known, now.

Jared worships quietly, with his eyes alone. Sinks down on the edge of the bed maybe two feet away from Jensen’s bare balls.

Jared sighs like he’s tired, heart-broken.

“Sweetheart. What’re you doin’.”

Jensen allows his legs to fall open some more. Blinks, stubbornly.

Jared sighs through his nose. Looks straight between Jensen’s legs, doesn’t even try not to, and why would he?

“I thought you were…restricted. About things.”

“I never said that.”

Chin on knuckles now, Jared cocks his head, peers with interest and pain in his eyes. “Who even waxes their balls anymore these days. Please don’t tell me you’re a hustler, baby. Don’t break my heart like that.”

Another inch for that V. Enough to make Jensen’s practiced thighs strain. “I’m not,” he murmurs. “An’ I have it done, back to front. All the way. All the time.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jared blinks lazy at Jensen’s peach of a taint. “Who you do it for,” he says, so soft Jensen almost misses it.

“Myself. How ’bout that.”

Jared shakes his head, smiles distantly. Climbs atop the bed on his knees and in between Jensen’s, and Jensen forces himself not to move an inch. Feels his heart skid when Jared brushes a knuckle over the back of his thigh.

“Baby, you’re not a good liar. But that’s okay. As long as this’s what you want, you can have it.”

“I do,” croaks Jensen, and feels younger and stupider than he is.

Jay smirks up, dent in his cheek where his mouth is cutting in. He’s got a scar on his chin, fainted to a shadow; another just above his eyebrow. Jensen is just noticing them.

“As bad as he lies, as pretty does he tell the truth.”

Jensen is restricted but greedy in his want—spreads legs but shivers, pulls in but clenches. Gasps like he’s forgot what his mouth is for.

Jared blows his breath over Jensen’s dick, makes him drip-twitch.

“You one of those I dun even have to touch, hm.”

Jensen—who has indeed always needed a hand to finish so far—hiccups on his nod. Clenches his everything when Jared dips his mouth low, lazy-drags his dog tongue along Jensen’s gash, once and slow, eyes so wide and calculating that Jensen doesn’t dare blink. Just huffs. Pushes his hips back, ass out, into Jared’s face.

“That where you need it?”

Jensen pulls his legs up under his nods. Jared’s eyes slide down to where he laps again, once, sweet reminder, sighs before he scoots back a little so he can lie more comfortably.

Jared slurps into Jensen’s asshole with enough care to make Jensen sob, fast.

So fucking slow, so wet Jensen feels it pearl from his tailbone.

It’s the first fucking time Jensen _wants_ it bareback, and Jared denies him.

“I wanna fill you up like any other pig out there does, but that woulda be so, _so_ stupid, so _reck_ less. ’S not what I do, who I am, baby.”

Jensen is dramatic but understands, accepts, will take what he can get.

And Jared _is_ a giver.

Goes from fingering to eating him, seamlessly, simultaneously; like this is what he’s made for, what he’s doing all day—and hell, maybe he _is_ , maybe this is what’s been happening to all those girls Jensen handed out sweets and sodas and sparkling wine to. But _they_ had it done on those fart-old seats (hopefully got some come on there so the next clean-up will be scheduled soon), not in Jared’s fucking ridiculous _bed_ , spread out like Christmas with all the comfort one could want. Mouth falling open when fingers withdraw and clap over the left-behind gape instead—strict little pout on Jared that soon blooms back into that mean-boy-smile when he can’t seem to stop, makes Jensen gasp and eventually snarl. Kisses it better once Jensen can’t hold still anymore; once Jensen grabs at one globe of his own ass each and pulls wide for more.

Finally, Jared slaps his dick out fat and slimy, tick-throb Jensen dreams of filling every inch his guts have to offer. Cooing and purring, handling Jensen like all the other fuckdolls this bed has seen, like he’s make-upped girlish hundred instead of his one eighty.

It’s not the first time Jensen’s getting mounted this enthusiastically, but God, is it the most spectacular.

Jared is hip-snapped infinite inches in to the root. (So, that’s how it’s like with a condom on, huh.) Doesn’t fuck but _ruts_ , first, before he lunges with enough weight to grind Jensen across the bed. Grunt-laughs on fascinated yelps and holds tighter for more counter-weight to pump into.

It’s been maybe a minute and Jensen’s already wrecked.

Babbles, weakly, though not much is coming out loud at all.

That growling from the deepest filth of Jared’s throat, that, “Yeah, ’s right,” when Jensen starts bucking to escape the inevitable, that’s what finishes him _good_ —makes him shudder so hard his neck cramps, makes him kick against the sudden-there grip around his ankles that pulls his thighs out _wide_.

And then Jared sits back and pulls out.

“Ohmygodno, nononono, _oh_ —”

Jensen sobs through it, in tune with his dick—two sets of eyes on it; not one finger.

Jensen wails on the grind back in, tries to curl up, crosses his ankles over Jared’s ass and holds on. Gets some of his noises eaten from his throat, lets Jared lick and fuck his fill.

Whines, helplessly, when it won’t stop. When he feels like coming, again, and Jared just barely started troubling his breath.

“You can take it,” slurs Jared between globs of spit and Jensen’s lip, “know you can. Let go.”

Jared doesn’t pull out this time. Has mercy before they make it three (because Jensen might be crying how much it hurts, he’s got nothing left, Jay, please); comes loud and like a storm, and Jensen’s never particularly liked that in porn but God, _God_.

Jared is no cuddler, so Jensen has the bed for himself. Rolls around just to seize the sheer size of this thing, dozes off, on. Jared’s showering, at some point, humming songs Jensen’s not accustomed to.

Jensen wakes to the image of Jared’s wide wide upper back, the gang tattoo curling from just underneath his left ear and down his neck; a hissing snake, or something.

He’s holding Jensen’s wallet in the one hand, Jensen’s ID in the other.

“You’re older than me by four years. Woulda guessed?”

~

They’re turning on the street lights by the time Jensen jogs around the street corner protecting The State from unworthy tourist-eyes. Tom side-eyes him nasty but brings beer when they take a break, later.

“Where’s he?”

“Manning the projectors. Just so you know, he’s told me to send you straight to him, once you’d be back.”

Jensen raises his beer, an eyebrow _and_ a corner of his mouth. Clinks bottles with his cousin. “Atta boy.”

“You owe me.”

Jensen snorts. “Uh, think again. An’ screw you, while you’re at it.”

“Where the hell’ve you been anyway?”

“None of your business.”

“It’s him, right? That guy.”

Jensen knows Tommy’s staring at the row-of-teeth bruise in the dip of his neck like he’s intent on setting it on fire, but he decides to be a grown-up and ignore it. ’S not like either of them owns him or anything. Just because this is the first time it’s actually happened doesn’t give anyone the right to act like this is news.

So Jensen cuts, “Tom. We’ve talked about this shit,” but Tom’s already putting his hand on Jensen’s thigh, too scared to go for his dick immediately but it’s enough to make Jensen snap, push him away, hard.

Some beer is spilled on the way.

“Dude! Would you calm down!”

Tommy says nothing he can’t say with the ache in his eyes alone, and Jensen settles back, beer tipped to his mouth.

~

George announces, “No, not you, Jen. You’re not working tonight,” and Jensen’s stupid brain is rejoicing for a moment or two, before it remembers that there’s always, always a catch.

Tom’s already slipped out, glad not to have to listen to this, probably. Jensen’s shoulders droop with his sigh. He rolls his eyes.

“Go change into something nice. Cab’s gonna be here in ten.”

“Man, c’mon, you now he can’t handle the place all by himself…”

George glares up from his PC, beard trimmed and, wow…is that…it’s eyeliner, isn’t it. “It’s a gala night,” he snaps, “and it’s very important to me. Loads of old colleagues, of friends, very nice people. You allergic to fun now or what?”

“I ain’t your fucking plus one.”

“I don’t care how you wanna call it but you _are_ it, so – get – moving, young man.”

Jensen puts on okay jeans and a semi-nice tee (’s more than good enough for George). Lets himself get dragged or follows relatively closely behind his uncle, allows an arm to drape around his waist or shoulders, lets meaty fingers hook into belt-loops. Jensen gets all the champagne he can get his hands on, until he can muster up smiles. Can pretend to be that boyfriend George dreams he is, for a while, if it makes the old man so happy. They use each other, it’s fine. It goes both ways.

Jensen isn’t paying for neither food nor rent; George practically gives him a carte blanche with the cameras and films and, basically, everything Jensen asks for. Jensen isn’t exactly proud, but hey, at least he’s not the one feigning to be in a loving relationship with someone half his age.

The party only ever seems to become more alive. Damn all the hags and fags so fucking used to alcohol and the deepest hours of night. Jesus. It’s the reason Jensen and Tom flee once George brings his dear artist friends over for dinner—they’re loud, they drink, they smell weird, they’re old and _not_ funny, and the more they drink the louder they get and the weirder they smell and the less funny they become. Basically, they’re clones of George. Of his abstruse, annoying, disgusting character traits. A cabinet of them all, magnifying revulsion to amounts that make it hard not to start strangling anyone.

Thank God George gets messy when drunk (which takes a _while_ ; Jensen’s switched to water hours ago), just squeezes Jensen’s arm once more in a lovingly gesture when Jensen excuses himself, be right back, the champagne needs to go _some_ where, haha.

Jensen rams the lock of the bathroom stall closed so hard he can feel it in his shoulder. Bangs his forehead against the door, once, twice. Clamped teeth. Don’t cry. Don’t you fucking cry.

It’s a nice bathroom with nice, clean toilets. Jensen would’ve sunken down on any filthy chair, at this point, as long as it’d be in a George-less space.

Jensen sniffs, loudly, as he scrolls through his phone contacts. Knows Jared put himself here, somewhere.

“ _Heya, cowboy,”_ purrs Big Dick Larry.

“Can I come over? Now?” but there’s party noise in the background, and Jensen’s stomach cramps as he notices that.

“ _Where you at, sweetheart?”_

“If you’re busy, that’s, that’s okay, I’m.”

“ _That’s not what I said. I’m working at this club right now though, you okay with that? Or you want me to go home, meet you there?”_

“Club sounds good. ’S fine. Perfect. Where?”

Jared gives him a name and directions and Jensen slips out of the backdoor (not the first time and, yeah, George will be hella pissed for the next days, but jeez, he’ll live). He walks a few blocks to calm down and smoke, then flags down a cab.

The club is as loud and colorful as it can be. Jensen has a weird feeling of belonging here and, at the same time, not having a clue what he is supposed to do. He stumbles through the crowd until he spots Jared, finds his way over to him and is welcomed with a powerful hug.

“Are you alright?”

“Working on it.” Determined nod. “You, uh. You still selling?”

“What do you need?”

“I wanna stop to—to fucking _worry_ so much. I just wanna. I don’t wanna think at all. About anything.”

Jared smiles and reaches into his pockets. Peels out various plastic baggies, chooses one, plucks out a single pill he holds out for Jensen—who takes and immediately swallows it.

Jared laughs, impressed. “Wow.”

“I can pay. How much?”

Jared halts his arm; “That can wait,” winks. Jensen snorts his laugh. Jared leads Jensen towards the bar. “You should drink some water while you still can.”

“What’s that you gave me?”

Jared throws his head back, laughing. “Oh, _now_ he’s asking.”

Jensen is being handed a tall glass of water. Jared reaches over the bar to refill his own beer. Turns back at Jensen, then, slack eyes and face and didn’t he say he _wasn’t_ a user?

Jared talks quietly. Like he’s sure Jensen can hear him over the music, the crowd. Has those eyes on Jensen, not letting go.

“You’re gonna feel very light, in a few. And then it’ll get nicer. And nicer. Until you’re flying.”

Jared smoothens against Jensen as he speaks, holding eye-contact, lids dragging low. He kisses Jensen’s neck and, for the first time, it doesn’t feel disgusting. Jared smells good, clean and skin and leather, freshly-washed hair that’s so so soft…

Jensen cranes his head for the upcoming kiss, the trail leading right to his mouth. Jared grins, tips the glass back against Jensen’s mouth.

“I don’t usually do that.”

“Making out with smoking hot guys?”

Dry, “No, like. Going out.”

“Then you’re _missing_ out.”

“I know. I mean…I moved here, because I thought—I thought that’s what I wanted. And I _still_ want it. To just—to go out, meet cool people. Be alive.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Maybe…y’know, I’ve been thinking, lately, that… What if I’m not that kinda guy? Maybe I’ve been lying, to myself.”

“So, what do you wanna do?”

Jensen shakes his head, laughs. “What you mean?”

“Right now. Whatever’s on your mind. Tell me. What do you wanna do, right now?”

Jensen’s head, to his utter amazement, won’t come up with a single thing.

~

Bass and sweat, hot so hot there’s other people here, close; Jensen laughs and someone’s kissing his ear and someone’s holding his waist, he’s topless, did he even wear a shirt at some point. Jared like a magnet, beautiful legs spread so wide and finger-flicking for Jensen to come up to him, so Jensen does that. Jared smells like smoke and heavy, is talking to someone not-Jensen, gets Jensen a glass of water and holds it up for him to drink from, the other hand hard on Jensen’s ass, gripping his jeans so he won’t fall. Jared laughs, so fucking beautiful when he does that, so young and kind and Jensen’s, Jensen’s. There-there’s him like a daddy when Jensen sags, when Jensen drags spit-fat lips along the warm pulse under Jared’s jaw. Feels Jared talking, here, vibrations like a massage and Jensen thinks he sighs, weakly, barely any air in him and it feels so good, so _good_.

Home. Does he wanna go home yet?

Jensen laughs, tosses his head with it, feels like playing a game with his mama.

Bed?

Oh, bed, yes.

A bed would be nice. Soft and warm, and.

Jensen feels his chest spasming, and that’s what wakes him.

Eyelids weighing tons—he frowns, sighs, makes efforts to roll over to his side. But. His body won’t listen.

Jensen tugs his arms and is held back. Eventually cranes his head up—why _up_ —to find his wrists tied to a bedframe he doesn’t recognize.

Jensen tugs again, until the cable binders nudge into his flesh so sharply he ends up hissing.

His glasses are gone. Maybe on the nightstand right next to him, but he can’t possibly reach it. Blinks, desperately, but his vision won’t clear, of course it won’t.

“…Jared?”

Silence. Or, no, actually: distant traffic noises. From an open window, maybe. Judging by the brightness, it’s been day for a while now.

“Jared? _Jay_?”

Still no answer. Jensen forces a deep inhale. Scoots up against the headboard so he can sit up, a little, as far as the ties will allow. He’s naked.

Fuck.

“Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck. Jared? This isn’t funny. JARED?”

No reply.

Okay. Okay. Don’t panic. He’ll be back. He’s _gotta_ come back. This _is_ Jared’s loft, that much Jensen can tell. Remembers the smell of sheets and air. The basic layout of the room—so wide, that over there could be the kitchen, yeah…

Jensen settles with counting seconds. Because why not. Keep himself busy. Ignore the bite of his bindings, of his bladder.

He’s at twelve hundred twenty-three when there’s the sound of keys, of the door, followed by movement of the latter.

“JAY!”

Rustling of paper bags. “Ah, look who’s awake.”

“You MOTHERFUCKER, let me GO, what the HELL!”

“Dude, I was grabbing us breakfast, would you tune it down! Jesus Christ.”

Jensen keeps from hyperventilation when it’s clear that Jared is hurrying towards him, when his features become clearer and then perfectly sharp; when Jensen spots the butterfly knife he flicks from his pocket and uses to snap open Jensen’s ties.

Jensen rolls away, instantly, cupping his chafed-open wrists to his chest.

“I _had_ to,” Jared far-away tries to justify. “You wouldn’t keep still, you were freaking _out_! Like an ass-tired baby refusing to sleep! I was jus’ _helping_!”

“Shut up; shut the fuck _up_.” The first clear thought is to grab his glasses—he slams his hand onto the nearby nightstand, feeling for it frantically, but to no avail. “My glasses—Jared, where’s my _glasses_ —”

“Here, god, calm _down_!”

Jensen snags them from the offered hand, puts them on and is blinded by the brightness of the day; eyes jumping around the room for traces of what happened—there’s his clothes, thrown over the backrest of the sofa, his phone on the nightstand where Jared got his glasses from.

Jared has his arms crossed. Tight tanktop, today, the usual skinny jeans and hair tied up on top of his head; pissed-off expression and, yeah, fuck you too.

“I got _breakfast_ ,” he reminds, like Jensen should be grateful or something.

Jensen gets up, bee-line to his clothes. “I’m leaving.”

“Babe, c’mon—”

“No, I’m done here, we’re _done_ , Jared.” Jeans up his legs; Jensen’s hands are so shaky he can barely work the button-fly closed.

“I was jus’ _helping_!”

“Stop talking.”

“I didn’t _hurt_ you, you think you’re the first ball-trippin’ person I’ve looked after?! ’S what I do for a fuckin’ _living_ , Jensen; you fuckin’ _asked_ me to drug you!”

Jared’s been working himself up to shouts and Jensen’s barely shoved his feet into his shoes that he’s already by the door—

A death-grip on his bicep slams him around and up against the wall, Jared all steel and up close, Jensen’s arm wedged between their equally heaving chests.

Jensen’s nostrils are flaring with his breath, and Jared isn’t blinking.

“You gonna sit your ass down at my table, and you’re gonna eat your goddamn breakfast. _Now_.”

Jared brought pancakes. Empties one pre-packed cup of syrup over Jensen’s share, circles the kitchen island to grab the coffee finishing up, set it in front of Jensen before sitting down himself, opposite to Jensen, with the kitchen in his back.

Jared says, “Eat,” so Jensen does. 

Silence but for the traffic, the cutlery, swallowing. It’s one goddamn surprise that Jensen can get anything down at all, he thinks, and sips from the coffee eventually. The fuller his stomach gets the more the hangover makes itself known, pulls him down with the added weight. But he gladly accepts the bacon Jared heaves from his to Jensen’s plate. Wolfs it all down.

God. He needs a smoke.

And, _God_ , “Can I use your bathroom?”

“’Course.”

The piss keeps coming forever and stings like hell. Jensen shovels water in his face and hair after washing his hands, towels it all dry, gives his reflection a good, long look. All in line except for exhausted eyes, pale mouth, but that’s to be expected, right? He’s looked worse before, from drinking alone.

As he returns to the huge center of the loft, Jared’s already cleared the kitchen. Leans against the wall next to the bathroom door, coffee in both his huge hands, dwarfing the cup almost comically if Jensen wasn’t in such a bad mood.

Jared soothens, “’M not mad at you, baby. Shouldn’t have left you for so long. Should’ve untied you once you were out, but—I’ve _seen_ stuff, y’know. Could’ve banged your head, hurt yourself. ’S all happened before. I just wanted to keep you safe ’s all.”

Jensen looks at him for a long moment. Sees him as he is—honest, sorry.

Jensen chokes, “Can I go home now?”

Jared’s eyes search his face, then, something twitching, winding—then relaxing.

Shrugs, hums, “You can go wherever you like.”

So Jensen leaves.

After finishing the sorry remains of the current pack, he gets a new one, goes through a good third of that, too. Lingers on benches if there’s one free _and_ in the shadows, otherwise roams, without a goal. Just not home. Not home, that’s all. Not yet.

He gets pizza for lunch; take-away. Eats hidden in some house entrance, a shelter from a merciless sun. Wipes his fingers on his jeans, discards the litter into a nearby bin. Lights another cigarette. Feels sick.

The State opens at four. It’s easily six, now. (Not that Jensen has the guts yet to turn his phone back on and check, but.)

Tommy gives him the nastiest look from the tiny ticket booth, doesn’t say a word and Jensen is kinda glad for that. Will say that many more words instead, later, so Jensen has that going for him, but fuck all that.

Up the stairs, to George’s office, that’s the worst part. Walk of shame, literally. Beaten dog. Stinking of bar and smoke and BO, unshaved, nicotine-fingertips and unbrushed teeth.

George isn’t in his office when Jensen steps inside. He slips out of his clothes and into a fresh uniform combo, always stacked in the same corner of the huge shelve; next to former years’ balances and promo events’ records.

George ignores him when Jensen slips next to him behind the narrow counter, lets him check supplies and doesn’t reply when Jensen announces that he’ll take care of the films then, now, so Jensen leaves to do just that.

Obligatory ten minutes is what he gets, alone, in his sanctuary, before the door opens soundlessly—or, soundlessly to anyone not spending most of their time here, to people who aren’t aware of the small things—and Jensen closes his eyes. Breathes, weakly, as if he’s not even here.

A hand on Jensen’s shoulder, settling in, gentle-hurt squeeze. Warm.

“Where were you.”

“’S it matter.”

George groans, “Jensen Ross,” like Dad. Like Jensen just smashed the window with some ball, again, and hid under the kitchen sink, again.

“I couldn’t. I.”

Jensen’s face contorts. Talking is exhausting. Like George’s absorbing all the space, all the lovely wonderful space Jensen’s got in here, for himself.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to lie. Not with me.”

Jensen croaks, “How’s Tommy,” and George’s silence is answer enough.

~

Jensen is far away. Sees himself, in these times, the many moments he has with himself. Doesn’t get it what they even like about him, why they’re draining themselves so much over him. Why they ache for doing it, how they can think this is _it_ , this is how it should _be_ , when Jensen’s not even _there_. But then again, they probably don’t even notice that, about him.

George’s wealthy-fat belly is soft, nestled in the dip of Jensen’s lower back. The neat trim of that happy trail itches, with time, with drying sweat and spunk, and if Jensen doesn’t move, he doesn’t have to feel any of it.

Jensen blinks, half-awake. Listens for his own breathing. For George’s—how deep it is yet. If he’s out yet.

Careful peel-apart; George always overworks himself like that, out like a light, like a built-in treat for Jensen he most definitely isn’t aware of. Only stirs, slightly, when Jensen escapes his arms completely, covers him with the pre-warmed blanket, and tiptoes out of the room. Jensen can handle this particular door so silently, by now, that it’s almost like it isn’t moving at all.

Washcloth, catlicked; the shower would wake everyone, so. Jensen settles on his windowsill, hopes Tommy’s out as well and won’t barge in. Jensen slips a cig out of the pack and between his lips, lights it, inhales deep enough to make his chest hurt. Doesn’t shudder on the exhale—one long, long, long exhale that grounds him, that makes all muscles go loose. He beds his cheek on his hiked-up knee, slumped-over like that. Smokes like that, for a while. Turns to watch the street after some time, indifferent to the fact that there’s not much _to_ watch. Everyone’s still partying. Hiding, indoors, from the loneliness waiting for them.

Call it stupidity but he turns his phone back on, here, cradled by the peace of the night. Blows smoke sideways as he swipes away the missed calls from both his cousin and uncle, then Jared’s. Jared sent texts, too, scattered from early evening up to an hour ago.

They basically read like:

 _Don’t be mad._  
_I’m sorry._  
_Sorry._  
_Still sorry._  
_Do you still love me? [crying cat emoji]_

Jensen snorts a baby-laugh, cig between his lips.

His thumb lingers over a selfie Jared subtitled with ‘this is my sorry face’.

He’s so freaking adorable. His mama must be heartbroken.

Who’d resort to dealing with a face like that, a charm like that? He’s smart, too, as far as Jensen can tell. And so kind. Maybe it’s because of the money. It’s usually about that, right? It’s about that for Jensen, too, after all.

Maybe it was the easiest road. Maybe the dangers are worth it, for him. Maybe the money and power and sex weigh it out. And—Jared’s no junkie. Healthy. Young. Only twenty-two. God.

_I’m not mad  
sorry for what I said_

Jensen is about to flick some ashes out of the window as the ‘is writing’ notification pops up. He keeps his eyes on the screen, then.

_you say that. but can a man believe you. show me your sorry face._

Jensen smiles conceitedly as he snaps a fresh dick pic, flips the camera off while he’s at it.

Jared texts:

_goddamn you lil bitch_

and Jensen chuckles as he turns his phone back off.

~

She’s tall and blonde, chin-length bob cut and strawberry lips and maybe she’s prettier than Jensen. Yeah. So what. Fuck you.

Jensen smiles as always, asks them what he can do for them as always. He pampers them, throws in a laugh because _fuck_ that guy.

Jared smirks at him like he has any right to be pleased. His date looks back and forth between him and Jensen, caught under one of Jared’s heavy arms.

“You boys know each other?”

“Barely.”

Jensen grins back at him, doesn’t even look at her. “Scarcely.”

~

Jensen slips from bathroom back to his room to walk in on Tom, sprawled out on his bed and scrolling through Jensen’s phone.

“Hey!”

Tom’s giving much of a fight for it being past three am. Stronger than he looks; all elbows and knees.

God, the things Jensen would do for a key.

“What do I get for giving it back?”

“A not-ass-whooping, asshole.”

“Uh-uh, you gotta ask nicer than that.”

“Fuck, man...Tommy, c’mon man, I’m fried.”

“Y’can just lay down.”

Jensen groans; groans louder when being pulled in by the forearm. Too tired to keep on fighting.

Just get it over with.

~

Jensen pretends not to see Jared pretending not to be gambling for his attention. Gets the gummy worms and beer ready, has them on the counter by the time Jared made it there. Jared peers around like he’s watching out for a trick Jensen has no intent on pulling off.

Jensen gets half an eye on the customers coming in after Jared. “What can I get you?”

“No Wanted poster of me up yet?”

“What can I _get_ you, Jay?”

Jared lays his forearm onto the polished hardwood counter; a barrier as much as an attempt to overcome the forced distance. He smiles, sweet and not directly at Jensen, like a coincidence. Looks young like that, innocent, and he sure as fuck knows exactly what he looks like.

“Didn’t think you’d let me back in.”

“You’re not my wife. I don’t care who you’re seeing on the side.”

Jared barks his laugh while the remaining customers form a line behind him. “Wife. That’s great,” then sobers, timid blink and only slightly lowered voice. “No, I mean, after I tied you to my bed and force-fed you pancakes.”

“That’s three bucks, sir.”

“Oh, yeah, right, right.”

Jared throws his arms in the air before he pats himself down for his money, making a show out of it like he does with everything. Peels out way past three, and people are starting to cross their arms.

The speakers are lulling their usual swing, just loud enough so only Jensen’s ears may pink up for Jared’s infinitely-low, “How much for some extra sugar?”

Jensen uncaps the beer. “On the house. Next, please. Hi.”

~

Jensen locked the door all quietly but of course Jared’s straining his neck for him before he’s even close to the row Jared’s got occupied.

“You guys’ve got great service.”

Jensen shuts him up with his tongue down his throat, works open the fly of his jeans. Gets pushed back, playfully, against his chest, but Jared’s hips push his cock finger-wards nonetheless.

“Ever heard of foreplay? Jesus.”

“You know what, maybe you _are_ my wife.”

Jared laughs, doesn’t object to being kissed again. Lets Jensen push him back into the seat, to peel his cock out all the way, and thank God.

“How long’ve we got?”

“Five, max.”

Jensen’s trying hard not to slur, licks Jared’s and then his own lips before he bends over Jared’s crotch. Has hands in his hair and semi-hard cock in his mouth, closes his eyes; hollows his cheeks. Can hear Jared sigh in unison with the seat.

Doesn’t take long to work him up just enough and yeah Jensen is kinda proud, after all doesn’t get as much practice as Jared’s girls most definitely do. Jared is too out of it to follow Jensen’s hurried moves and shoves, just gasps and grabs two handfuls of ass when Jensen’s already in his lap and sinking down.

“Jesus, I’ve—wait—”

“Just don’t come inside, s’gonna be fine.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

Jensen sees that Adam’s apple bob in that nothing-but-tendons throat, feels fucking cross-eyed from taking too much cock at once, but God be his witness that he’s not backing down a single inch. Sits flushed and secure now, too soon with just enough lube and stretch left from earlier today that he’s not crying. Groans weakly as he pushes up, leg-strength and hands balanced wide on the backrest of the seat, while someone screams on-screen.

“Oh, fuck. Baby, Jesus.”

“Can you shut _up_?”

“No, no.” Puppy-slurred, hands skipping on Jensen’s skin, head tossed and barely blinking eyes. “God, how can you be so fucking dirty with a face like that.”

Jensen prefers collecting smudges on his glasses over talking. Lets Jared hold and semi-direct his rhythm, the impact; grabs his own dick soon and comes after too-little strokes. Makes it a mission to shoot all over Jared’s stupid shirt.

“Baby, baby, fuck, I’m gonna—down, downdowndown—!”

Half-shoved half-controlled lift, and one pulse shoots astray but Jensen’s on his knees just quick enough for the rest. Jared makes a while fucking new range of sounds, bucks and flees and curses but grips the seat instead of Jensen’s bobbing head.

Stares like a miracle once Jensen comes up.

“What.”

“Thought I ordered sugar, not fuckin’ cyanide. Jesus Christ.”

Jensen can’t help his grin. He pulls his pants back up. “Enjoy the movie.”

“Will I see you later?”

Jensen halts, unprepared. “Uh, I finish at. At two, but…”

“I’ll wait,” huffs Jared, and only lets go of that belt loop on Jensen’s pants once he is out of reach.

~

“I don’t like him.”

“Well, tough shit, nobody cares.”

“He ever killed anyone?”

“Whu—Jesus, I can’t _ask_ him that.”

“I bet he has.” Tommy glares with squinting eyes, crossed arms.

Jensen sighs, wipes the counter for a last time. Warns, “Tommy,” drags an apologetic palm between Tom’s shoulder blades. Tom doesn’t buck him off but doesn’t look much happier either. Makes those same sad eyes at Jensen George likes to pull off and which cause that always-there stutter in Jensen’s brain over the fact that the two are actually not blood-related.

Tommy prompts, “I don’t get what you see in him,” and if Jensen had a good answer here he’d still just pat his cousin’s back, and leave him behind.

Jared sits and waits, as promised. Jensen has to spell out loud that he’s done with his shift before Jared even attempts to rise and go, patiently nods when he’s told to wait outside, let Jensen change into something not-uniform. Jensen runs into George on his sprint upstairs, shakes the confused, “Hey, what about the—?” with a, “Tommy’s at it,” and it doesn’t feel right to leave the two behind but God does it feel good to slip out into the night, into Jared’s line of sight.

Jared holds out an almost-virginal pack of Camels, is nursing on one himself. Jensen picks one from the lot, uses his own lighter despite Jared already reaching for his one. Jared smiles, tame as an old dog. Doesn’t drape an arm around Jensen, doesn’t touch him at all while they walk. It’s crowded, busy with party folks, but they never have to step out of anybody’s way.

Jared halts several blocks too early. He peels the Camels from the back of his jeans and hands them to Jensen, folds his hand around it with both of his own. Murmurs, “Watch that for me for a sec, yeah?” around the baby-butt of his smoke. He slips into the nearby alley without waiting for Jensen’s response.

A thrill runs up Jensen’s spine, makes him toss his head around to check if anybody is watching, did see. But people keep passing. Jensen gets crowded closer to the building within seconds, clasps the smokes and peels a new one out. Has enough time to take a handful of increasingly worried drags before Jared reappears, as un-bothered as ever.

Doesn’t have his smoke anymore, must have finished and discarded it in the alley. He fishes another from in between Jensen’s fingers, leans in to light it on Jensen’s. “Thanks,” he says, and pockets the pack while picking up the route to his place.

~

The apartment is connected to a huge-ass balcony Jensen shamefully didn’t even notice until they step outside. There’s a small pool, lounge chairs. A lonely bikini top is draped over one of the bar stools; forgotten.

Jared hands him an ice-cold beer and eyes him head to toe; either to check him out or to goad for a reaction, Jensen doesn’t know, doesn’t mind. They move to sit down, and Jensen drops on his ass with a tired sigh. Takes a sip of his beer, wipes the back of his hand through the sweat on his forehead.

“Nice tee,” mentions Jared, and Jensen knows he’s got pit stains the size of Texas and that his back can’t look any better, but alas takes the compliment. Almost sounds not-objectifying, coming from a guy like Jared.

“Okay if I smoke out here?”

“Course. Go ahead.”

Jared accepts when Jensen reaches out to share, this time.

The heat is still suffocating despite the depth of night. Part of Jensen side-eyes the pool while the remaining ninety percent are painfully aware of the used-looking condom dangling from a potted bush five feet off the pool edge.

“Y’know, strangely enough, my guests usually take their tops off the second they come out here.”

Jensen smirks, nods, smokes. “Strange indeed.”

Jared grins back. “God. I like you.”

“’Cause I’m not flashing my tits to your neighbors?”

“’Cause you’re you. ’Cause you have your ways that you stick with, and you don’t let anyone stop you.”

Jensen chuckles, taps away ashes.

“Why’s that make you laugh?”

“’Cause, uh, no offense, but, you don’t know me.”

“So the cowboy _does_ have his self-conscious moments?”

“Hell, who doesn’t.”

Jensen keeps his smile, drifts his eyes from potted plants to distant traffic lights to Jared, the gleam of cherry in his lax fingers he’s got draped over the armrest of his chair that’s barely built to contain him.

Jared is looking at him with a depth Jensen’s never been fond of provoking in others.

He looks away, into the water.

“It’s rare,” hums Jared, far-close deep from his chest but quiet, like a whisper. “Meeting someone like you. People I meet, in my kinda life, they’re not staying for long if they’re any good.”

Jared halts for a drag from his cigarette.

“It’s either they go big an’…well, turn into someone else entirely. Or, they die.” In the corner of Jensen’s vision, Jared shrugs. “But _you_ , I mean…y’don’t belong here.”

“No?”

“Nah. I don’t think we were supposed to meet. Not in a, uh, how’d you say…fruitful way.”

Jensen nods, smokes. “So, this is a mistake?”

“No. God, no.”

Jared scoots up so he can slip his shirt over his head, flings it behind himself. He finally has some of his beer, and Jensen catches a glimpse of his bare chest. Beginning of hairs here after what looks like a clean shave; older and newer tattoos, several scars, at least one a long-healed bullet-wound.

“Does it hurt?”

“Huh?”

“Getting shot.”

“Oh.” Jared looks down his body, pats himself down. Shrugs, lies back into the chair. “Ah, well, y’know. Can’t afford being whiney in my line’f business.”

Jensen nods as if he has any idea.

“S’why I haven’t asked you out yet, too.”

“Uh, what?”

“Why I haven’t _asked_ you,” repeats Jared, quiet again, small glance for a confused Jensen before he looks to his own crooked toes. Takes a deep lungful but barely deflates with the exhale. “If you were a girl, I guess I could marry you on the spot, but. Business’s weird, y’know. I have a rep to lose.”

If Jared wasn’t so absurdly serious, Jensen would burst into laughter. As things are though, he’s too uncomfortable to reply anything at all.

Jared seems to accept that, or, at least doesn’t press the topic any further. The silence is blissful at first but becomes pressing eventually.

Jensen’s fingers cling to the last of his smoke.

Jared releases them by soft-asking, again, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Jensen peels at his wristwatch. “… It’s complicated.”

Jared hums his understanding and seems to leave it at that for a while, until he inquires to know more about Jensen’s definition of ‘complicated’.

Jensen scoffs. Has to dip out his smoke, goes for a new one out of sheer necessity to busy himself.

“So, uh, complicated as in, theoretically, we’re related.”

“Theoretically.”

“Yeah.”

“And practically?”

Jensen bursts with a nervous laugh and hates the sounds as soon as it leaves him. Is knees-on-elbows, hunched over and painfully aware of how he shouldn’t have opened his mouth in the first place.

“Uh, practically, he. He was married to my Dad’s sister, back when he still believed he’d just have to try hard enough to be normal. Didn’t work out, of course, he caved in and she found out, an’. Was ugly, according to Dad. Warned us all of our perverted faggot of an uncle. Not to pick up the phone if a New Orleans number’s callin’, an’ so on. Of course never looked back, George. Divorced and out of the closet an’. Well. For me, he was…”

Jensen’s voice dulls out. A breeze sends a single wave along the length of the pool.

“For me, he always was some kind of…hero, y’know. He made it out.”

“So cowboy finishes high school,” drawls Jared, almost-forgotten audience, “turns sweet eighteen and first thing on his mind is to haul ass.”

Jensen chuckles with a flash of embarrassment. “Yeah. Shit.”

“Of course he’s gonna see his idol.”

“Damn straight.”

“Which one’a you made the first move?”

“Me.” Jensen smiles to his cigarette, his knees. “God, it was so… Things felt right. For the first time in my life.”

Jared makes an approving noise.

“Like… He didn’t laugh at my dreams. He sat with me, listened to me. He encouraged me to go to film school, even offered to pay for everything, but God, I couldn’t, I… Well, I started working for him, then, naturally. So at least I could be tellin’ myself I’m doing _some_ thing to compensate him.”

“Oh sweetheart, I’m pretty sure you ‘compensated’ him just fine.”

Jensen clips Jared on the shoulder for that but has to grin himself. Looks up-front, taps away the mass of built-up ashes, shakes his head.

“God. I was so young.”

“Do you regret it?”

Jensen shakes his head some more, exhales the smoke. “I mean, in a way…I guess I do love the old man.”

“Comes with the years,” nods Jared.

“Yeah, I s’ppose. We’ve been through some shit together. We’re, uh—God, this is getting, this is getting ridiculous, sorry, just tell me to shut up.”

“No, no, it’s okay. Tell me, if you want.”

“Okay, uh.” Quick side-check and yeah, Jared is attentive, watches Jensen and probably has been for a while now. “We, uh. Aunt Sandra, she died of breast cancer two years ago; George’s ex-wife. And she’s had a kid after they split, never married the guy, nobody told us kids who he even was. But, well, she’s got Tommy, and then she dies, an’—in her will, she says she’d hope George would support him. ’Cause, of course, she knew he’d made quite the money down here.”

Jared’s chest ebbs with withheld laughter. He huffs it out, grins at Jensen. “Your uncle is one soft-hearted man, isn’t he.”

Jensen snorts. “The softest.”

“As if he’d owe that bitch a single dime.”

“Well, that’s George.”

“There it is.”

“What?”

“Your face, when you talk about him. He’s one lucky sonofabitch, I’ll tell you that.”

Jensen rolls his eyes, sucks on his cig. “If you say that.”

There’s no further back-and-forth, just that gentle smile on Jared Jensen’s been drawn to right from the first time he saw it.

“Oh,” Jared seems to remember, “you said Tommy, right? Same Tommy-Tom working with you?”

“Sure is. Why?”

Jared’s smile turns cockier, his eyes smaller.

Jensen turns away with an uneasy sigh. “What’d he do.”

“Oh, y’know. Just sneaked over as soon as you were out of sight. Threatened my life if, ‘you hurt him, you bastard’.”

Jared laughs and Jensen just feels sick.

“He didn’t mean it, man.”

“’Course he didn’t. Cute lil’ Forrest Gump you’ve got there.”

“Tom’s not—” Jensen stops himself from rising his voice any further, raises his hand to sign Jared not to go any further. “He’s a lil’ slow s’all. Docs say so, all we’ve been to.”

“S’the Palace have a janitor, Jensen? You fuck him too?”

Jensen spits a laugh.

“Seriously, who’re you _not_ letting in there?”

“You better shut your fucking mouth.”

“It’s gonna eat you alive,” states Jared, as bitter as it’s mean, “to fuck around like that, without meaning. Without _love_ , Jensen.”

Something in Jensen bucks and screams to tell that guy to screw himself, dash out of here, not look back. The other is paralyzed with the warning. One of them sits deep in his guts, maybe has been for a while.

Jensen manages spitting, “You’re sick,” but it doesn’t feel as sharp as it should be coming out loud. “Who the fuck are you to tell me how to, who to—Jesus.”

He snaps. He’s got enough. Stands up, takes a last hurried drag from his smoke before he flicks it into the ashtray between Jared and him.

“You know, coming from someone screwing one swimsuit model after the next, that shit is _rich_.”

Jared is glaring up at him, unblinkingly. “Every single girl I’ve been seeing for the past years, you know where they are, right now?”

Jensen’s nostrils flare.

“They’re on the streets. Working. For me, for my boys.”

Slow as molasses, Jared’s hand raises, so the ashes he flicks off will land in the ashtray. Bullseye.

“I’m jus’ test-driving ’em.” Jared takes a drag, eyes still on Jensen. “Like sport cars.”

Torn between leaving and staying, Jensen’s legs won’t move in either direction. “So,” he growls, frustrated with himself and this situation, play-scratches his fingernails into his palms, “what? I’m supposed to pity you or something? _Screw_ you.”

“I just want you to know that I know what I’m talking about.”

Jensen snorts, crosses his arms. Turns away from Jared, stares across the railings and into the house fronts instead. Tries to catch his breath, keep a clear head. What’s to do? What’s to do?

“I didn’t mean to offend you. If that’s what’s goin’ on right now.”

“Yeah, sure you didn’t.”

“Jensen.”

“Fuck you.”

“Jen.”

“No.”

Jared moves as quickly as he does it silently and Jensen almost trips into the pool, only remains standing because Jared’s got inhumanly strong arms that he’s got winded around Jensen too fast for him to process what’s even happening. A gasp, enough time for that, in between being spun and held and kept silent with just those hands on his face, engulfing most of it and warm-dry-smoked. Jared’s strict lines of a face grown up too fast, whipped and malnourished and he’s got storms in his eyes, this one.

There used to be a time where Jensen wouldn’t turn away from George’s kisses, but even these times will never ever compete with what it does to Jensen when Jared is the one kissing him.

If Jared wasn’t so goddamn right with what he’s been saying, this shit would hurt so much less.

“You look at them like that too?” whispers Jared, and Jensen shakes his head as far as Jared’s grip on him allows it.

Jared kisses like he’s dying inside, slowly. Like it’s the last time, and like he wants to express his sadness over that very fact.

Jensen offers himself up for that. He’s good at that, at least.

Hands eventually go to Jared’s hips, for support since Jensen’s knees are slowly giving up on him. Jared’s tongue’s reaching to the back of Jensen’s throat, feels him out and for the first time Jensen is ashamed for the lack of his gag reflex. Suddenly wishes he could be less of what he is, so Jared wouldn’t be able to kiss him like that, look at him like that. With anyone else, this here would be disgusting. Is, in a way, but then again they’re both anything but clean.

Jensen’s raw-mouthed by the time they let go, all keeping him up now being Jared’s hands in his hair, Jared’s thigh against the dull-wet throb behind the fly of his fuck-me-jeans. Gets his eyelids kissed, grabs Jared’s ass harder.

“Can I have you in my bed?”

Jensen doesn’t trust his voice, so he simply nods.

Tangling from Jared’s hand, Jensen follows blindly. Begins to wrestle out of his tee one-armed, while still on the way, but Jared’s only letting him strip by the bed. It’s so much cooler inside; Jensen feels like he might be steaming with heat, shudders with goosebumps and stands naked, stupid.

Jared’s slipped off to the house bar, two glasses of what might be whiskey in his hands, and wanders back to where he left Jensen behind. The only light in the room comes from far away, the kitchen, giving the softest shadows, licking over the stretch of every one of Jared’s muscles, the soft-long fall of his hair.

Jensen takes the drink with more gratitude than he hopes he’s showing, keeps his eyes on Jared as he throws it back all at once, just like Jared. Yeah, whiskey.

Jared places his empty glass on the nearby sideboard with a scary-loud clink. Adds Jensen’s after retrieving it.

“You’ve got anything you’ve always wanted to try?”

Jensen’s throbbing from asshole to tip of cock, feels airless. Can’t speak, doesn’t know if he’d want to. Just keeps staring. Feels like reaching out for that fat bulge in those jeans, but he’s a good boy.

“I mean, I can always fuck you till you can’t walk.”

Jensen rasps, “Sounds like a plan,” and Jared’s mouth tilts into a teeth-baring smirk.

The way he asks, “Yeah? You sure?” ratchets Jensen’s blood pressure through the surface of his skin some more, makes him so tingly his mouth can barely string that, “Yeah,” together.

Jensen’s eyes flicker down to that huge hand adjusting that proportionally sized cock, and he’s about to cry.

“In that case, lemme go powder my nose, yeah? You want anything?”

“No.” Jensen sniffs in sympathy, rubs at his eye. “No, I’m fine.”

“It scared you, last time?”

Jensen nods, laughs stupid-embarrassed.

“Yeah. See—that’s why you don’t belong. And why I’d never lose you,” _if you were mine_ , imagines Jensen he hears, but Jared’s too quiet and stepped too far away to be sure.

“Ah, I’ll, I’ll go wash my face real quick, okay?”

Jared’s at some kind of dresser, his broad back blocking the sight. “’Course. Make yourself at home.”

Jensen slips into the bathroom, sporadically washes his ass, his dick, dries himself with what he hopes is a fresh towel. Sets his glasses onto the sink, next to the soap. They should be safe here.

His reflection looks back at him with sweat-stringy strands of hair in its eyes, blown pupils. He’s flushed down to his chest, blotted red with nervous-white in between; that sheen of freckles. He’d shaved, this morning, but it’s coming right back. He considers searching the cabinet but then settles with turning on the water, shoveling some into his face. Towel, again, and now he’s nothing but pink. Beard-burnt around the corners of his mouth, and his lips are pulsing.

God. God.

Okay. Okay.

Jared’s refilled the glass, stands by the bar. Half-blinks for Jensen, hums, “C’mere, baby,” and Jensen does.

Jared’s loose from up close but for the stone-set of his expression, so blank Jensen might be someone he doesn’t have to play-pretend anything for.

Jared continues, “On your knees,” as he pops open the remaining three of the five buttons on his fly.

Jensen’s down quick enough to see the miracle unfold. Can’t take his eyes off it; so much fucking flesh it’s obscene, only half-hard and Jensen’s jaw is already singing open.

Jared takes his time, one-handed as he is right now. Plucks his balls free as well, his pants so tight it must be strangling him most of the time, like a choke-collar on some rabid hound. Jared strokes himself, pulls it stretched and Jensen feels himself sigh.

“You look at them like that too?” like earlier, and just like earlier, Jensen shakes his head.

Adds, though, this time; “Nobody.”

“God, I might be in love with you,” slurs Jared just before whipping his cock right across Jensen’s cheek.

Jensen gasps, surprised, squeezes his eyes shut in reflex; gets another, same side. Turns his cheek. Gets yet another on the right. Feels his chin trembling, his dick leaking.

“Please.”

“Please what.”

“Put it in my mouth.”

Jared laughs. Prompts, “Pucker up,” and lets the entire weight of it come down on Jensen’s good-pursed lips; catches on the upturned tip of his nose on the way down, makes Jensen jolt.

“You’re so good. So good at that. _Open_.”

Jared feeds him the instant he can, slides in-sync with Jensen parting his lips. So fast Jensen skips swallowing, easing up around the insane girth of it with his tongue buried useless—Jensen’s been practicing sucking dick this size via toys since he was old enough to cheat his way into the according shops, but this thing’s _alive_.

Jensen’s choking on a pulse that’s not his own and Jared’s angling for his throat, only has to shove once before he’s _really_ pushing down, parting Jensen easy as warm butter and shit, holy shit.

Jared grunts; needs a hand in Jensen’s hair to tug him down the last three inches.

Jensen is one straight line, tremble-kneeling with sweat between his toes, the small of his back, and the tears are just a normal physical reaction.

“How’re you so perfect.” Jared sounds like he’s crying, too.

There is no space for air, for anything. Jensen lets his head get see-sawed back and forth, hauls his breath on the drag-backs that leave Jared’s cockhead just shy of his tonsils before it fucks back down, feels bird-chested, so so so fucking good.

It’s over too soon, ripped from Jensen and he’s only putting up with it because he knows exactly where it’s going in next.

“Bed,” growls Jared, and Jensen can barely get his legs back under him fast enough for Jared not to rip out the handful of hair he’s still fisting. Is thrown more than he’s actively stumbling, stomach-down but twists around, needs to see—Jared, struggling to shove his jeans down at the speed he wants them off, frantic-tight frown and little mouth.

Jensen keeps his lips glued shut, wipes over his face to get rid of the worst before Jared comes over him, four-legged and more animal than man. Jensen feels small, likes that; hard to find someone his height, let alone outreaching him, and of course Jared’s all that. All he’s ever wanted in a guy. Physically.

Swallows his yelp when Jared just tosses him around, raises his hips and presses his cheek into the sheets, knees easily knocked together and Jared’s growling above him like he’s about to break his neck. Puts one of his paws there, actually, one swift grip that crushes Jensen’s trachea just right, makes his mouth fly open and hips squirm, but there’s a hand there too, holding him so still he gets claustrophobic with it.

“Please, please—”

The hand around his throat lets go and Jensen hauls for air, wails when it cracks over his ass, hard.

“That’s what the dirty girls get, Jensen.”

Jared keeps going, increases the pace too quick, and it _really_ hurts, hurts like Jensen deserves it, and he’d be on the other end of the bed if Jared wasn’t wrench-holding him by his hip, sat on the backs of his thighs.

Finally screams, “Please!” again, throat raw and he’s trying to get a hold of something, a knee, a wrist, but all is sweat-sliding and he can’t see clear past the usual five inches. Sobs, when Jared’s actually halting, if only for a moment, “Fuck me, fuck me!” and shoves his ass up as high as Jared’s weight allows it, manages to grab either side of it and pulls, presents, for mercy.

Jared hits him there, too. Sharp, like being whipped into, and snaps, “Keep ’em open,” when Jensen’s hands jerk off and away from their position.

He rocks, minutely, with the hits. Little aftershocks, almost-forgotten soreness from George this morning before breakfast and Jared during The White Zombie creeping back into him dick-first. By the time Jared’s letting him be, it’s long gone sweet.

Jensen groans uselessly for the cold of lube squirting over his crack, is one warm mess without an understanding of up or below until Jared’s on his back, weighing down down down. Wet mouth on the back of his neck, baseball bat of a dick slotting where Jensen’s still pulling himself wide—missing once before it spears him so wide he forgets he’s asked for this and would scream if his lungs had the capacity for it.

He’s pressed flat, bare junkie-cock pushing his belly into the mattress and Jared’s sinking teeth into muscle.

Jared’s grunting something approving when Jensen’s barely making a sound on the lift-up, drop-down, heavy enough to make the bed shudder.

All Jensen can do here is sweat, and hold on.

Jared only ever detaches from Jensen’s neck to slur, “Nobody’s ever fucked you like that,” and that’s no question.

Jensen loses time, in between. Thinks, deliriously, how it might have been a mistake to let Jared coke himself up, wonders how this would have went if both had been sober. If Jared’s always like that when he’s high. If he’s fucked others like this, before.

He’s not exactly losing control; doesn’t come for the longest time and _when_ he does he finishes up Jensen’s back, always dutiful even though Jensen hasn’t seen any of the galaxies he’s keeping in his eyes for hours now, so pushed-afar by blackness, by instinctive violence. Doesn’t hit Jensen, not like Dad or Father Jonah used to, uses claps to where Jensen wouldn’t allow anybody else to do him violence like that. Jensen’s wailing for him to stop when he’s coming, held up only by wobbly upper arms and Jared’s cock, clenching so tight he can feel the slam-ins in his teeth and he can’t do anything, nothing, with Jared jacking him off all along, until he’s raw and then some; until he’s given up, corpse-limp.

Jared turns him over, then. Hikes legs up and pulls Jensen closer, like a toy, a doll. Folds and arranges as he likes, and he’s not tiring, not at all; steel and boiling blood in that cock and knocking Jensen unconscious with it eventually. He’s still not finished when Jensen’s back.

~

There’s blood in his mouth. It smells like fried bacon.

Jensen’s try to lift himself up ends in vain and a dry haul for air.

As on command, Jared waddles over. Is dressed in nothing but yesterday’s tee, turned outside-in again so Jensen’s long-crusted orgasm flakes off the fuckboy-print of it, unashamed. He doesn’t smell like he’s showered.

Jared places an overflowing plate right in front of Jensen’s face, on the pillow. He grumbles, “Always keep my promises, don’t I,” and leaves Jensen with the food, returns to the couch.

As Jensen’s gaze follows him there, there’s two heads turned towards him.

He clutches his food, hunches his shoulders.

What the fuck.

“Anyway, as I was saying…”

What the _fuck_.

Jensen eats, pointedly not-listening to whatever deal is going on twenty feet away from his seriously inflamed-feeling ass. At least Jared’s pulled the covers over him at some point.

It becomes clear that the guests won’t leave anytime soon. Jensen pushes the now empty plate aside, tries to doze back off. Has to piss like crazy, feels like showering for a day and work starts at five, but shit, Jared indeed kept to his word.

“Jared.” Whispered at first. Loud, then, when it’s clear he hasn’t been heard. “Jay?”

The chattering dies off. Jared comes back, changed into a new set of clothes but still reeks like lube and the inside of Jensen’s ass.

Looks deadly-tired, reaches a soft-soft hand for Jensen’s hair, cups his ear.

“Need to go, baby?”

Jensen nods.

Under whichever how many eyes, Jared gathers Jensen up in his arms, cocooned in one of the dozen sheets he keeps his bed covered in. Doesn’t look like he’s slept or might be in any way capable of supporting all that weight, but damn, not one muscle is trembling.

Jensen hides his face in that chest.

Jared says, “Gentlemen,” and carries Jensen into the bathroom.

“What the fuck,” hisses Jensen, on his ass in the shower because Jared knows what he’s doing, he knows it _exactly_.

“Work is work. I can’t help it.”

“Did they—say? Anything?”

Jared cracks an exhaustedly thin chuckle. “They’ve seen worse.”

Jensen showers on his own, Jared long gone back outside. His clothes are waiting on the closed toilet lid, carefully folded. Jensen manages a half-assed shaving job, spritzes too much aftershave on in the hope that it’ll mask the day-old sweat of his tee. Huffs, with his glasses on, frowning at the mirror, the stupid guy in there taking too big a bite, being laughed at and deserving it.

It’s definitely not the most gracious walk he’s ever performed, but he does make it out of the bathroom. Jared isn’t looking up, too consumed by the conversation that’s now heated and in what sounds a suspiciously lot like Russian. Sits there, with his back bowed, elbows on knees, chin on folded hands. Flicks pinprick-eyes up at Jensen when he passes the group of now five, and Jensen conversates a last silent What The Fuck before two guys side-eye him, confused as to what the fuck is taking him so, and yeah, okay, whatever.

Jensen sees himself out and bumps into one massive shoulder just outside the door. Stares up to an equally confused hunk of a man who frowns at him, gives him a once-over.

“I was just—”

“Fuck off.”

“Okay, okay,” hands in the air; Jensen—out.

~

People’s glances stay with him longer. Yeah, okay, he gets it—that shiner and then that maw-wide bruise on his neck, he’s not exactly family-friendly right now, but give a guy some slack. Jensen lost his smokes somewhere at Jared’s place so he slips into his favorite kiosk to get a new pack, adds in a granola bar.

“Wow,” states Laleh.

“Yeah,” grunts Jensen, drops his money on the counter.

She slips him an Aspirin and a coffee, because she’s an angel.

“I can’t,” states Jensen, half-alive in front of George’s desk, “at least not today. Man, I can’t even stand straight, I dunno what you wanna hear.”

George looks like he’s about to cry, lower lip trembling and all. Hands clasped so tight under his chin he’s gonna break a finger soon.

“If you can party all night, you can work.”

“This is not a discussion. I’m calling in _sick_.”

“No, you’re not!”

“I’m not going downstairs, George, not in the next twenty-four hours! I’ll go lay the fuck down now; you two can grease the fuckin’ popcorn machine today, I don’t fucking care.”

“Jensen ROSS!”

“WHAT?!”

The volume shatters against the walls of the crammed little room.

“ _WHAT_ , HUH?! What you gonna DO? FIRE me? GO THE FUCK AHEAD!”

George sits still, quivering with frustrated anger and broken-hearted jealousy, and all Jensen feels is disgust.

Jensen’s never screamed at him, not in all these years and all that shit, but maybe that’s been a mistake, he thinks, because he shouldn’t be this enraged, not about something this innocent. It’s just all too much, lately.

Rumbles, “Yeah, s’what I _thought_ ,” and stomps into his room, slams the door.

~

Jensen sleeps for ten hours straight. Wakes, softly, to the rumble of his three percent battery phone. New text from Jared, and that’s all information Jensen needs to squint for to sigh, slide his eyes back closed.

“George’s cooked lasagna,” murmurs Tom, uselessly since Jensen’s nose is working just fine. “Your favorite.”

“Grmpf.”

“Do you want to sleep some more?”

“Mpfh.”

“Can I sleep here?”

Jensen lifts the covers so Tom can slip in next to him, hooked tight under Jensen’s armpit. Settles in easy, with a tiny sigh, always so grateful. Drapes one cold arm over Jensen’s back, both on their stomachs now.

“How’ve you been,” slurs Jensen, half-dreaming, sudden urge to go for his phone now, check what Jared wrote, if he’s even alive anymore. “State on fire yet?”

Tommy says, “Slow day,” yawns to make a point.

“You been lonely?”

“Always,” Tommy sighs.

“He do something?”

Tommy doesn’t reply.

Jensen rubs his back.

“It’s fine,” he’s assured, “you’re back, so, it’s fine.”

“You know I’ll never leave, right? Even if we fight, the ol’ man an’ I. Not leaving you idiots.”

Tom nods loyally.

“You’d let all my precious babies rust away. Can’t leave you two alone, can I.”

Short silence, calmness, then (inevitable); “He hurt you.”

“It’s okay. I asked him to.”

Tom stiffens with confusion before he accepts the foreign concept. Always trusting, and Jensen likes that most about him. Makes the kid vulnerable too, but Jensen’s keeping close watch.

Jensen presses a kiss to that crown of head, hums for him to sleep now, c’mon kiddo, and Tom’s out even before him.

~

Betrayal stabs mean, right between the ribs.

Jensen put on that one tee George got him years ago, and Jared—whose hand is sliding from the back of his jeans to some girl’s outreaching hand (her boyfriend is right next to her, not minding any of it)—is smooth-easy enough for the three of them. The couple takes off quick, and Jensen contemplates turning around, going back upstairs.

Jared’s got many faces, and one of the prettiest is when he catches sight of Jensen—lighting right up from mask to maybe-honest joy.

Jensen feels like punching those teeth out.

“Dude, you can’t sell here! What the fuck!”

Jared soothes, “It’s cool,” and laughs when Jensen bumps into his chest too hard, folds always-warm hands around shoulders like he want to take a good look. Jensen feels like pulling away.

“Did you think about it? The thing I asked?”

Jensen sags into the hold, sighs. “I dunno.”

“Why?”

“I can’t leave them alone for that long.”

“It’s only a week,” promises Jared, whispering and rubbing Jensen’s arms now. “C’mon, how long since you’ve been outta this town, huh?”

“I’ll think about it,” twist and turn and the conversation is over. “Beer?”

Jared nods, rubs his nose. Trots behind Jensen like a dog.

Rounding the counter, Jensen grabs two beers from the fridge, uncaps them. Sees George too late, drops his gaze to his fingers.

There’s this thing about George—he’s survived here, he _is_ someone, and he knows it. He’s had people spitting in his face, beating him up, kicking him out, suing him, but he’s always come out of it with his head high and his tongue a little sharper.

And George hasn’t been this fucking pissed since some artsy in-quarter press titled The State a ’moldy retirement meet-and-greet with a selection of mediocre wines’.

He doesn’t spare a single glance for Jared who side-eyes him with curiosity rather than hostility, elbow on counter and chin on hand; relaxed alpha dog who doesn’t need a fight to win. George places one hairy tanned forearm on the counter too, the right one with the lady-Rolex strapped too tight, the rose quartz ring (“Emalia says it brings love and protection.”)

“You’re leaving?” (If you don’t know George, you can’t tell his voice is tight right now.)

Jensen shrugs, weakly. “Last ticket sold hours ago.”

“So? Then you get out on the street and you promote.”

Jensen’s, “We don’t even have pamphlets, man,” gets swallowed by George slamming his fist down, by Jared straightening himself to full height and George yelling, “I’ve had enough of your attitude lately, Jensen Ross! If you want to stay a part of this establishment you’ll take it more serious right about NOW!”

Jensen slips out from behind the counter and keeps walking in long, paced steps. Doesn’t wait up for neither George’s screaming to die out nor for Jared; nothing’s getting to him.

Jared catches up with him, outside, one block down the way.

~

Jensen watches Jared peeling at his happy trail, sweat-wet cheek against Jensen’s belly. The sun has set a while ago now and the balcony still beams with heat.

“I never want this to end.”

Jensen smokes in silence, too fucked-out and sun-burnt to think of anything at all.

“I wanna keep you, like this, forever. Just fly away. Never come back.”

Dry-tired kisses, careful fingertips.

Jensen hums, “I’m no beach person,” beds it in a chuckle so it doesn’t cut as sharp, because if he doesn’t stop Jared’s stupid blabbering he’ll start hating him soon. Like all the others.

“We can go wherever you want. S’long as I have you, I’m in.”

“Y’know, I’ve actually always wanted to go see Russia.” It’s a joke but Jared’s head bobs sincerely, devotedly.

“Yeah. Course. When? Now?”

“Jesus.”

Jensen laughs out loud. Drags his free hand over his face, peeks down his body to find Jared’s face all confused; crumbled boy.

“Dude. Jay,” he tries, “that’s not how... I can’t just—leave.”

Jared croaks, “Why not?” like he truly doesn’t understand. Like the concept of his plan is, in fact, incontrovertible.

He’s lifted his head now, left a beard-burn on Jensen’s belly. Hair down and plastered to his skull he looks skinnier than ever, confused like an old man.

“I mean, why not? Why? Aren’t we gonna die anyway? What’s it matter?”

Jensen smokes so he doesn’t have to answer. Thinks he’ll slip out, later, once Jared’s asleep.

But it’s one, two, three am, and Jared’s never really gone. Wakes when Jensen as much as turns his head on the pillow (they migrated to the bed, Jared clinging to every Jensen-inch he can get a hold of).

“Jay,” Jensen eventually whispers, careful and pillow-sweet, “hey, I. I’ll head home now, okay?”

“What. Why. Baby, you can stay.”

Jared slurs himself awake. Stumbles to the bathroom and Jensen should have seized his chance despite the open door, maybe.

There’s a metallic-plastic noise from where Jared is. A hiss or, a sigh.

Jensen’s staring at the ceiling.

Yeah. Should have ran.

Jensen sits with Jared, because Jared’s already asked twice. Arms crossed, avoiding eye-contact. Avoiding seeing anything, really, even though he could argue himself into getting dressed. Only lacks shoes, now, but hell.

Jensen ignores the drink that’s being set in front of him, or the way Jared doesn’t even seem to notice that he does.

After a while, Jared’s voice comes from closer than Jensen would have liked. A quiet tone, promising he’s anything but.

“S’it cause I sold my shit at your place? S’that it?”

“No. No, I mean...I knew what you’re doing. You do that.”

“And suddenly you got a problem with that?”

Jensen blinks. Shifts his eyes to Jared who’s on the other side of the coffee table, all leaned back, arms draped over the back of the couch. Jensen can see the new tattoo better now (didn’t really care to look, earlier), right below Jared’s heart.

“Always had,” he says. Smiles, a little, because maybe he’ll get home if he does. “Just thought that...I could block that out. But I guess I can’t.”

Jared smiles back, halfway. “Course not. That’s not how that shit works, with people.”

“Always worked fine for me,” croaks Jensen and Jared melts sweet at it.

Shakes his head, hums, “You wouldn’t love me if I wasn’t exactly like I am, one hundred percent. Wouldn’t speak like I do. Fuck like I do. Hell, you wouldn’t have looked at me twice.”

Jensen blinks. Can’t feel his face. “What do you want?”

“I have an offer.”

“An offer.”

“An offer.” Jared nods with his eyes closed, as if deep in thought. Somewhere else. “So you don’t have to worry anymore. About work. About your uncle.”

“Jay...”

“You can live here,” he blurts, “with me. You can bring all your weird lil’ machines ’n shit. Haven’t found a theater for sale yet, but I’m so sure that—”

“Jared.”

“—there’ll be one, soon. I can feel it, an’. Until then, we can go, maybe, on vacation? If you want? I mean, my guys, they know some places over there where there’s a lil’ more to see than mules and stones an’ shit; we—”

“Jared.”

Jared blinks, small-wide eyes that seem to look right through Jensen.

“I’m flattered, really. But I don’t want that. And...man...we had loads’a fun, you an’ me. It was great, but...that’s all.”

“What’s he pay you?”

“God...”

“I’ll give you twice as much. Hell, as much as you want. You think I’m bluffing, huh?”

Jensen says, “No,” but Jared’s already in motion, pulling money from every pocket he’s got (slipped his jeans on when Jensen did, too); some comes from his boot, some is gathered from underneath the couch, the coffee table. He’s piling it all up between Jensen and himself and Jensen hugs his middle, presses back-away into the couch.

“Anything you want,” nods Jared, huge hands hovering over his offering like he is about to will it alive, make it dance.

Those eyes stay on the money (only some is bloodied, but all of it is crumbled, even the rolls) and he swallows eventually, still solemn, unmoving.

Jared’s legs are long and fast, and Jensen is gonna be sick.

“I wanna go home, Jay.”

Jared’s looking at him, then. Tucks his arms back to his middle, hunched over.

“Okay,” Jensen hears, “alright. Sure.”

Jared gets up first—few feet behind, Jensen. He’s not been able to tell if and where Jared’s keeping his knife by the time they’ve made it to the door.

Jensen can’t hear anything but Jared. The slur of his feet. The whisper-friction of his clothes, his skin.

One hand on the door, Jared turns to face him. If he is able to tell how terrified he is, it doesn’t faze him. He doesn’t flinch or soothe like he used to. His eyes are flickering, helplessly, and his body sways with the effort it obviously takes him to get out the words.

“I was only joking. You know that, right?” Jensen’s silence stirs him. He rubs his nose, his face. Laughs, tosses his head. “Uhm, sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I fucked up, didn’t I. I fucked it.”

“You didn’t.”

“I just...I...I thought...”

Jared’s laughter bursts, once, before it dies. He rubs his face again, knuckles his eye. He’s leaning against the wall at this point.

“Nevermind,” he mumbles. “If you ever change your mind, you’ve got my number. Right?”

Jensen nods, boy-scout-true.

When Jared raises his hand to cup Jensen’s cheek, Jensen tries his best not to turn away, look away. Jared’s thumb brushes along the jut of his cheekbone.

He then opens the door, steps aside so Jensen can pass.

And Jensen does. Refuses to look back, or to run.

Eyes up front, heart dry.

That’s what you get. That’s what you get.

~

Jensen turns his phone off. Peels the card from it, stuffs it in his bedside drawer between ever-awaiting condoms and two-thirds-gone KY.

He spends hours bent over his cameras, to clean and check and not-think. Putting things in order, as it should be. Eventually goes for a shower; drinks water straight from the tap, naked, in the kitchen.

The road is semi-busy and the house is humming in its own tune, like a dragon. A fairytale.

Bermudas, saggy tank top, wristwatch. A cap for good measure.

George in the ticket booth ignores him completely (cold shoulder, still, but then again maybe Jensen could have been more attentive these past days). Jensen lights himself a cigarette outside the sandwich shop where he’ll grab lunch in a second. Meat lovers, a beer. Another beer.

He drags his feet around the Quarter. Coffee in an eco-friendly cup. Someone is selling freshly-cut fruit in the park.

Jensen knows how to put himself on display; he wishes he’d be better at doing the very opposite, even though it’s been getting better with time, somehow.

He wipes at his forehead, keeps smoking.

He allows his gaze to rise from shoes to knees to vague faces. Some look back. None of them strikes his interest.

He’s invited for coffees, gets smiled-at what-time-is-its—doesn’t smile back, replies hushedly. Withdraws.

Jensen hides in the crowd, Mojitos for three bucks and he has two, doesn’t touch the third the barkeeper shoves his way with a wink.

It’s stupid. All of it.

The line in front of that gay bar he’s been to a couple of times now puts him off to the point of wanting to cry, to run home and bury himself in his room, again, forever, as always, as on every other free day he’s had since he came here.

His dick hopes Jared will find him. Sniff him out. Hunt him down. But Jensen is sane enough not to chance it, not really want it, because look where that got him.

Should have known. Should have known. It’s always like that. He always attracts that kind—and God yeah it’s his own fault, who wouldn’t want to be looked at like they look at him, be told the things they say. Who wouldn’t wanna be the reason someone is getting up in the mornings?

So, shut up. Shut up shut up shut up.

It’s how it goes. Things are nice for a while, and then they go to shit. Same old story. Happens to everyone.

George sulks all but for another minute when Jensen crawls into bed behind him, even swats away the hand that’s slipped down to knead at his dick. Jensen whisper-kisses, “I’m sorry,” into George’s neck, has him big-spooned and quickly forgiving against the bareness of his skin. Touches George’s dick again and isn’t denied this time.

George is easy to play, easy to please. Mouths in half-kiss, George’s neck craned to he can reach, eyes closed, “I won’t bring him here again. Promise.”

George pats Jensen’s cheek, smiles sleep-drunk and benevolent, and Jensen’s scared of how similar they are, George and him. 

~

“Wow.”

“Eat up.”

Tommy pulls the chair back, sits down. Jensen fills a fresh cup of coffee for him, sets it in front of him, but Tom barely notices at all given how invested he is into his pancakes.

Jensen smiles and pats him on the back, because fuck his life.

Jared doesn’t show up again. Not for a week, and not for two.

Jensen decides he isn’t hurt. Jensen decides he doesn’t feel anything, and definitely isn’t sorry.

Best, like this. Maybe the guy sobered up, was embarrassed for a minute for all the shit he said, and then turned to forget about Jensen altogether. Call up a girl. Found a new place to bring them, apparently. None of Jensen’s business, probably. Definitely.

He decides to put his phone back together and is that much more surprised to find it all set up in his bedside drawer. Frowns, but Tommy does that, sometimes, going through his stuff. Tommy _does_ that.

For the first time since escaping from Jared’s that night, Jensen goes out again. Even if only for the kiosk, for Laleh. Fresh air. Something else than The State, than the inside of his brain.

She beams at him once she spots him, has his Camels ready before he’s even made it to the counter.

“How’s your old man?”

“Better than yours.”

“Ha ha.”

She waves at him to drop it when he peels for his wallet, says, “It’s okay,” and Jensen grunts his laugh.

“Yeah, sure, no. C’mon, we’ve been through this.”

“No, it’s _fine_.”

She stresses the last word, smile wavering a little, and that’s when Jensen notices the white of her knuckles shining through her skin.

“Hey. What’s going on?”

“It’s fine,” she repeats, broken-record-odd and her smile so stiff now yet familiar to the regular one that Jensen’s heart breaks.

She whispers, “It’s on the house,” like a code that’s supposed to tell Jensen something—but he’s got nothing.

Today’s heat is of the blazing hot kind; the one so dry and invasive all there’s left to do is hide and hope for it to pass. Tommy in the ticket booth is glass-eyed-focused on his phone; he’s collected all but five empty sodas around himself. Jensen’s intent on making it six right after giving George hell for keeping the kid out in this heat.

The hall is as wiped as it ever was, nothing unusual in this weather where it’s as stuffy in here as it is out on the street. Anna German is sighing over the speakers; the sad kinda tune George puts on for long-gone friends’ obits. Jensen isn’t keeping track. Most days these days he doesn’t hear the music at all anymore.

The State’s floor is carpeted, red velvet-y shit that’s a bitch to clean (and gives mean rugburns). Smells the worst in summer heat.

Jensen stops just shy of the top of the stairs, and blinks at his Olympus sitting in the middle of the doorway.

What the hell. They never touch his cameras.

German is still singing.

Careful-handedly, Jensen brings his baby home, beyond the door stamped ’Private’, sets her on the dark cherry wood sideboard next to the bowl of keys and mints. Even though he does expect him in the office, Jensen raises his head to listen for his uncle. Nothing, though, except for the ever-tick-tock of the grandfather clock.

The same deck board as ever groans at being stepped on, passed quickly to get to the closed (closed, why closed?) office, hand on the knob and, Jensen, something in him thinks he shouldn’t, attempts to tug him back.

Jensen opens the door in a rush, mouth and mood already set to start another useless arguing, and God help him all he sees is Jared sprawling in George’s chair despite the floor being a sea of blood and George.

Jensen’s mouth opens wider.

“Heya, cowboy.”

Jared is smiling, and his teeth are white. His hand ghosts to his Butterfly, loyally next to his booted feet (he’s put them on the desk). He puts George’s ring down.

“We were just talking about you.”


End file.
